


Another Way

by mangocianamarch



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, DAI Trespasser spoilers, F/M, Lyrium Addiction, Spoilers, lyrium!cullen, personal headcanon fic, that really bad ending we DON'T talk about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 18:17:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4797446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangocianamarch/pseuds/mangocianamarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The death of the Inquisitor heralds the end of the Inquisition. Commander Cullen, wifeless mere days after marrying the love of his life, doesn't know if he can stay strong enough to resist old temptations. </p><p> </p><p>(STRONG spoiler warnings for potential canon endings in Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Way

**Author's Note:**

> This came about in a discussion with a friend on Tumblr regarding _that_ ending in "Trespasser" for Cullen who was put back on lyrium by the Inquisitor. We were both unable to completely believe that Cullen would let that happen to himself, especially a romanced Cullen, and I developed a headcanon about what the hell could really have happened. And because I'm always a slut for unwarranted angst, I made the romanced Inquisitor gone. Won't say what that headcanon is here, coz if I do, I'll give away the plot.

Despite the din of agents and soldiers moving in and out of the fortress, Skyhold has never seemed emptier to Cullen. The sunlight streaming in through the window in his (his?) office is just _this side_ of too bright, and yet not bright enough to convince him it’s actually morning, or some hour of. He feels strange, both too heavy and too light-headed, too full and too hungry, restless and yet tired.

They had ridden for days, and he doesn’t remember if he spoke a word between here and The Winter Palace. Then again, what else is left for him to say? Hadn’t he protested enough? Hadn’t he already shouted his grief and despair at the news brought back to him by Dorian and Varric? Hadn’t he expended all his words trying to stop Josephine from disbanding the Inquisition?

Cullen’s throat feels dry, and as he coughs, his hand unconsciously reaches for the box on the opposite end of what is no longer his table.

The cork is barely off before the philter is shot out of his fingers with an expertly aimed arrow, which misses him by inches.

“You barely even flinched,” Leliana notes.

Cullen sighs, running a hand over his face. “Don’t sound _too_ impressed,” he grinds out, his voice hoarse. His fist falls hard onto the edge of the desk, and the box and its contents rattle with the impact.

Leliana crosses into the room and snaps the wooden case shut. “She wouldn’t want this,” she tells Cullen, who huffs.

“Don’t you dare, Leliana,” he hisses, “Don’t…don’t you _dare_ make this about her.”

Stoic as ever, Leliana is unmoved by his temper. “ _I’m_ not the one doing that, Cullen,” she points out, “I was not the one about to take a draft in the hopes it will dull the pain somewhat.”

“Can you blame me?” Cullen growls, turning away from Leliana and towards the view out of his window, “Do you even understand how this feels? To realize that I became too complacent, that I just _trusted_ that she would be all right, that she would come back and we could finish everything officially? Do you know what it’s like to think – to _know_ that you could have done something to stop this, but you…”

His throat clenches, and tears burn hot in his eyes, and he lets out a single humorless chuckle. And here he thought he’d run out of tears to cry.

“Giving in to this is not the answer,” Leliana replies, voice soft but tone firm.

“Then what is?” Cullen asks, and he drops onto the floor, elbow on his knees, head in his hands. It hadn’t been what he had meant to say, but it was what came out. “I don’t…I no longer…She’s _gone_ , and I…”

Cullen breathes deep through the pain in his chest, and he knows that has nothing to do with needing lyrium. Leliana is right, of _course_ she is. The Inquisitor – _his wife_ – had spent too much time and effort over the past year helping him get off the damn thing, and while it hadn’t always been successful, she had done so much, _too_ much, and this…

Leliana approaches, joins him on the floor, sitting opposite him, her back against the table as she watches him. Cullen rubs at the back of his neck.

“I need…” Cullen murmurs, “I need to go, I need to disappear, I…I need to die.”

“Die?” Leliana asks, and the hint of surprise in her tone is genuine, and somewhat sad.

“I can’t _live_ like this, Leliana,” Cullen points out, “My wife is gone, my addiction is returning, I no longer have office…there is nothing left for me. If I persist…I don’t want to think about how or where I might end up…No, death would be better, _far_ better than any of that.”

Leliana nods, and Cullen is grateful for her silence, but even as he leans his head back and sighs, he can see in her eyes that wheels are turning in her head.

“I can help,” she offers, and though her voice is its usual soft, almost sing-song lilt, there is a determined note in it.

Cullen shakes his head. “You want to help me _die_?” he asks, “Not that I question your skills, Leliana, but I’m almost certain I can -”

“ _Stop_ ,” Leliana says, and Cullen does, “I can help. I _will_ help. All I need for you to do is _trust me_.”

 

~+~+~+~+~+~

 

Stepping out of the light and back into the shadows afforded by the alley, Harding wipes the blade of her dagger clean. Opposite her, the man’s body begins to slump, and he sputters and coughs weakly, matted hair falling across his dirty, scruffy face. “May you find rest with the Maker and the Holy Andraste, ser templar,” she sighs, shoving her dagger back into the scabbard at her hip. As she walks away, the poor beggar breathes his last, and she thinks she hears him whisper his gratitude.

“Harding!” Rector calls when Dagna makes it out of the alley, “One more disappearance like that, and I may have to start binding you to my hip or something. Although I imagine that might not make you very happy.”

Harding snorts. “Probably not,” she affirms.

“So are you done here?” Rector asks, “With whatever it is you found down here?”

Harding looks back into the dark alleyway. There’s no movement, no sound.

“I have a letter to write,” she says, “But yeah, I’m done here.”

Rain starts to fall as Rector and Harding make their way to the rendezvous point, and Harding briefly wonders if it will be strong enough to wash the blood off of the streets and into the canals.

The letter Harding writes arrives at its destination days later. The raven carrying it has no trouble finding the farm, and how could it? It was trained to know only three locations, after all, and how hard could that be to remember?

The arrival of the message is heralded by the loud barks of an excited mabari. The dog chases after the raven across the farm, over the fence and into the small house, where he nudges at the palm of his owner.

Hands calloused from daily work are gentle as they hold the bird and remove the letter. Practiced fingers are careful to not break the familiar wax seal, as if it might still serve some purpose after the message has been opened. Eyes still bleary from sleep read the short note over, and a low, deep breath escapes lips just made wet by a healing concoction.

_**It is with deepest regret that I inform you of the death of Ser Cullen Rutherford, former Commander of the Inquisition’s military forces. He was found alone and mortally wounded in Val Chevin. Should you prefer, preparations will be made to bring him to Ferelden to be laid to rest. Please accept my sincerest condolences. SN**_

Cullen rolls up Leliana's message and sets it on the small table beside his bed, next to a pair of simple silver rings that have long lost their luster. The next breath he takes is more solid, as if he’s only just stood up straight after having been bent down for so long. The mabari looks up at him and barks, and Cullen smiles down at him, pats his head.

“That’s it then, boy,” he tells the dog, “I’ve died at last.”

The mabari barks again, and runs back outside as Cullen attaches a small token to the raven.

“Make sure Mia gets this,” he bids, and though the bird doesn’t respond, Cullen knows it understands.

He sets it loose, and watches it fly up into the sky and disappear. The sun peeks out, and the clouds smile at Cullen, who takes another swig at his potion, and sighs in relief.

 

 

_**~ END. ~** _

 

**Author's Note:**

> There's going to be another version of this. Same basic headcanon, just a different way of going about it. But I'd love feedback, I always love feedback.


End file.
